


May I Hold Your Hand?

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Male in this with reference to previous female forms, Not of the main pairing, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Please note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 09:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Crowley does not like watching the lovey dovey bits of movies.Aziraphale finds out why.Aziraphale is not happy.Crowley is pleasantly surprised by how his angel responds.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 502





	May I Hold Your Hand?

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE note the tags. There is implied/semi-explicit PAST abuse and non-con. There is trauma. There is healing. Do NOT read if you will be upset and don't want to, please.
> 
> Also PLEASE NOTE that it is NOT the author's opinion that everyone should work through past abuse this way. Some may, some may not, and whatever works for you is what works for you.

Crowley turns his eyes from the screen, back to the smaller one in his hand. He flicks idly through text and images, only faintly listening to the dialogue, waiting until it’s enough to draw him back up again to watch.

“Would you… prefer we change the channel, dearest?”

His attention moves at once to the angel, though his gaze is lagged for a moment. “Hmm?”

“You don’t seem to be enjoying this moving picture.”

“Movie, angel. Film. Flick. And for Hollywood’s sake, _never_ call them ‘Talkies’ again, please.”

“But you seem to be… you disengage very often. I thought this was what you wanted to watch? Are you simply humouring me?”

“Uh, no. It’s… it’s okay. I just…” He stares more furiously at his phone. “It’s nothing.”

“Alright. But if you do want to--”

“I’ll say, right? Okay.”

***

It happens for the next movie, some weeks later. His legs draped over the angel’s lap nonchalantly, vaguely watching something just to pass the time and stretch the conversations out. 

Before the Apocalypse Never, there’d usually been gaps. You know. They had to keep up appearances, or there’d been work to avoid doing. So there’d been long intervals where they wouldn’t see one another, and then stolen moments when they’d furtively sought each other out.

But now - now - the ‘secret’ was out. Heaven and Hell both knew they consorted, fraternised, whatever you wanted to call it. So they didn’t need to conceal it, and there was nothing stopping Crowley just… moving in for long stretches, because neither of them _needed_ to sleep, so there was no uncomfortable discussions about couches. Instead, there were comfortable discussions **on** couches. 

And on big armchairs which appeared amidst books. And walks. So many walks. And wine. And sandwiches. And sushi. And cakes. 

But even two beings as comfortable as they were, now, would occasionally need a little break. It might be he napped while Aziraphale did boring book things. Or it might be he went for a drive to pick up something as a treat. Or it might be they turned on the telly and watched things together. Companionable silence, or thereabouts. 

Except when the topic got… uncomfortable. Like when a documentary or historical piece got one of them ranting. Or when something utterly implausible happened in fiction. Or when… 

“Is it the… love?”

Crowley has his legs bent like storm-battered tree-branches across warm thighs, and he can’t hide the fact that he’s suddenly stiffened so much that a gust of wind might shatter his shanks. 

“What?”

“You… lose interest whenever the romantic leads are--”

“No.” No. Absolutely not having this conversation.

“Because I know it must be difficult for you, being a demon, and--”

“Don’t. Don’t.” His voice is creaking, and he’s wondering if he can somehow reverse time, or - or - anything rather than have this conversation.

“I’m sorry,” the angel says, and reaches for the hand not holding his phone. 

Crowley can’t bring himself to pull back, but he does flinch, and he sees the pain on Aziraphale’s face. “Just… put on something about baking, okay?”

“Very well.”

***

Crowley leaves for a while after that. He just. Does not want to be around him. Not when he feels flayed open and raw. Not when the looks of compassion and pity make his stomach churn. Surely real pity would be about leaving him to his embarrassment and not pointing it out?

He stays gone. A week. More. Who knows? (He counts every day.) Yells at his plants. Causes minor mayhem for the sake of it. Drives too fast and makes people jump (but never, ever actually causes a crash or anyone to do more than have a little start). 

It’s awful. It’s boring. He has no Hell to vaguely foil by doing what he wants and passing it off as work. He has no Great Plan to thwart and no world to save. He has no one to watch things about the ocean with and wonder when the kraken will show up. He has no one to go to dinner with, and no one to drink wine with, and no one to occasionally run fingers through his hair. 

He considers sleeping, but he knows when he wakes up it will all be the same, except with more computer shit. 

The world isn’t much of one without Aziraphale to share it with. It’s a truth he has known for a long time, but which hasn’t been challenged of late. 

He’s halfway through working out how he can nonchalantly wander back to the shop and pretend this never happened and hope Aziraphale gets the hint when there’s a knock at his door.

A knock.

No one ever knocks. Even when he orders things, they get delivered elsewhere, and he collects them. No one ever knocks. 

Crowley stares at the angel on the doorstep, all worried blue eyes and slightly less kempt-than-usual hair. 

“M-may I come in?”

He’s so surprised at the appearance that it takes him a moment to nod, and step aside to let him in. Aziraphale is holding a very nice bottle of whiskey, and he flusters like it’s back in the old days as he walks in. 

True, he’s only been once before, but it’s not like… he was ever not invited. It’s - he just - the shop was…

Somehow, it hurts and in a really good way. Crowley has always been the one toeing and pawing at the line, waiting for a chance to break it. Aziraphale has rarely been this forward, or bold, and it makes his belly ache.

“Sssure.” The lisp is unintentional, and makes him flounder, which he hides by turning aside and waving him in.

His flat is less homely. It’s more stark, punctuated by bold items and the occasional piece of art or statement piece. But there’s a couch and TV, now. Because he needs it.

Aziraphale finds it, and sits down, while Crowley fetches the tumblers for the whiskey, plus some icecubes. He wonders if he should have put more couches in, but it’s too late and obvious now, so he sits at the edge and pushes the glasses near the bottle for the angel to pour.

“I hope you… aren’t offended by me… I mean, you did invite me when you thought the bookshop had - and I - it was--”

“It’s fine, angel. I mean, I regularly invade your personal space.”

“Oh, I can leave if you--”

“No,” he says, and nudges his shoe against a warm brogue. “Mi casa. Remember? Our own side?”

“Yes, but I… well. I just thought you… and you were missing so I…”

Crowley takes the bottle and pours them both a drink, because it will be easier (or worse) with the alcohol inside of them. He holds one out to be taken, then clinks crystal on crystal. “You’re welcome here any time, angel. Any time. Just…”

He flicks his other hand, and holds out a key. Symbolic, sure, but… what isn’t, when you’re this old?

“Thank you.” Aziraphale takes the key reverently, and Crowley watches him attach it further back on his pocket-watch chain. “I will try not to out-stay my welcome. I simply… when you did not come back, I--”

“Just…. Needed some air.” He knocks the first drink back, needing the distraction from words.

“Oh. I…” He flusters again, then follows suit. “It had been so… _nice_ having you around, and I thought I had ruined it with my questions, and-- I missed you so _terribly_.”

Crowley is not drunk enough for this. They haven’t really… talked. Much. About things. And every time, it’s been him furiously trying to get Aziraphale to admit they’re _friends_. And trying not to die inside when he yelled back that he wasn’t. 

“Y-yeah. Well. I just… same. I just…” Oh, damn. “Sorry. Kind of… went… a bit over the top, I guess.”

“If you would like to pretend I never asked, I can. But… m-may I ask what to… what to avoid so I do not offend you in this way again?”

Because that makes sense. Totally ignoring things for years upon years, hiding it deep down to avoid any… Crowley glances across, eyes hidden, but scanning. His tongue finds his incisors and worries at them, pricking nearly enough to hurt. “It’s stupid, angel, and it’s… it’s nothing you did.”

“But perhaps I can help?” he pleads, sounding so… wounded. 

Crowley flits his eyes to a corner between walls, and siphons liquor from bottle to glass without moving. “Just… listen for a bit. And maybe then pretend I didn’t say anything. I - you’ll worry about this if I don’t, but it’s…” 

Ugh. It’s ridiculous.

“I don’t,” he begins, “...have a problem with ‘love’. Not… really. I mean, you probably feel differently about things being an angel and all, but I can… feel things. And it’s kind of… nice to see when… yeah. But it’s… when it’s in… movies and books and stuff… even if they don’t show it, it’s always about what comes next.”

Aziraphale pauses, and Crowley hopes he’s been clear.

“You mean… physical things?”

He has been clear. “Yeah.”

“You… are you uncomfortable thinking about those things in my presence? Because I am an angel?”

“...you mean like watching raunchy things in front of a parent? No. It’s… maybe. I don’t know.”

This conversation is excruciating. Down goes another slug. Another. It does not help. 

“You know that we - that is, both of us - do not have to have those… parts. And… or is it that you wished to, and thought I did not? Because I confess I--”

“I have them, angel.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Not that impressed. Had both kinds, actually.”

“And you… have used them?” Aziraphale looks so intent and curious, without any ulterior motive, that it hurts to observe. “Oh! Was that improper of me to ask?”

“Uh. Maybe a little.” Crowley shrugs, and tucks one leg under his other knee, bouncing his foot as he does so. “Yeah, I used them, sort of. For… Hellish stuff. Didn’t really want to, but it was all the rage at one point, or so The Powers That Pissed Me Off said. Kind of tried to avoid it, where I could.”

“They… whored you out?”

The horror in his voice makes Crowley’s blood run cold, as he realises that is precisely what they did. “Just a body.”

“But - but it’s yours! And - and lovemaking is supposed to be an exchange of affection and mutual satisfaction! A dedication of oneself to one’s-- Crowley? I… oh, my poor boy…”

Crowley wants to discorporeate right now. The waves of compassion are too much. He can’t bear to feel the focus of this elaborate, fierce pity and righteous fury on his behalf, and he bites his lip to try to feel something more intense. 

“Angel, it’s nothing. It was - it was just a thing that happened. Demon, remember? Hell wasn’t great, not that Heaven was any better for you. I just… it… when I see it there it…” It makes him angry. That truth isn’t his truth. It isn’t all soft focus and gentle, swelling music. It isn’t roses on pillows and blushing virgins. It isn’t even those terrible but somehow more palatable comedies about teenage urges and idiotic accidents. 

“Sometimes it’s just awful and that’s all. And I - I thought… I mean, you’re an angel so you’d be above it all, so it was okay, you wouldn’t… and… but when it happens so damn _much_ in their dumb shit art, it’s…”

A stark reminder that his existence isn’t the one anyone would write great love stories about. He’s different. He didn’t have a bumbled but loving first time. He didn’t have someone ask him what he wanted. He didn’t even have them care if he was upset and didn’t want any more. There’s no swelling music in his memory, just harsh breathing and harsher words and wondering how soon it will be over and he can limp away. Or finding ways to perform some miracle without it being noticed, so the temptation was over and he could leave. 

“May… I…” Aziraphale looks wretched. “I want to comfort you, but I don’t want to make you feel more… uneasy. What should I do?”

That simple question nearly has him bawl. He aches for the comfort, longs for the brushes of wings and fingers… but he’s also terrified at the thought that it will be too much, that he’ll recoil and undo millennia of hard work. He curls tighter into himself, and tries to voice things that there really aren’t words for. How do you say ‘yes, please’ and ‘fuck, no’ at the same time?

“...is it alright if… if I hold your hand?” Aziraphale asks. “Nothing further. Not unless, or until you want more. I… I am sorry you feel this way.”

His hand. It’s… such a little thing, but so major, too. He puts the one closest flat onto the sofa between them, and when the other lies flat atop his, he feels ready to throw up. It’s - there’s flashes of memory of weight on top of him, and this is stupid and he wants to pull away because it’s a fucking _hand_ and nothing more and--

Aziraphale starts to pull back, but Crowley twists his wrist in a fit of panic. If he doesn’t reach out in return, Aziraphale may never push again, and he’ll be - it will be - he doesn’t want to--

Their fingers slot together, and that’s less oppressive, and less worrying, and the strange little stroke of a thumb against the bone of his own makes a strange bubble pop inside his chest. 

“Thanks, angel.”

“My dear heart, I am here for you.”

“You - you know it isn’t you I’m… you know--”

“Yes. I know.” He lifts their joined hands, but stops just shy of the knuckles reaching his lips. Aziraphale blows a kiss over the skin, and looks across to see if it’s okay. “Please tell me if I ever go too far. It will never be out of malice, only idiocy.”

Crowley is sure he’s the idiot in this regard. He’s a demon. Why did he even let anyone do those things to him at all?

Oh, right. Hell. 

Hell could have done much worse.

***

Aziraphale is, of course, the perfect gentleman. How could he not be? He makes his presence known before he does any kind of contact, so it doesn’t startle him. He holds his hand out, but doesn’t grasp and allows Crowley the final step of closing the circuit. He offers his lap for cuddling, and he checks (without sounding patronising) if he’s touching too hard, too fast, too much.

Slowly, it starts to feel okay. Most of the time. Sometimes there’s still something - some movement, sound, word or thing he can’t identify - and a shockwave passes through him. But when he blinks through the fog, he’s safe. His angel is there. And he doesn’t mind if Crowley slides arms around his waist and pushes under his chin, into his shoulder, or otherwise seeks comfort. 

It becomes… nice. He feels the memories, but the comfort he is given to ease him through becomes much more pleasurable and sought-after. He finds he really likes kisses to his hair. He melts when there’s hands on his shoulders. He likes holding hands, and he starts to feel it’s okay to initiate properly.

This body has been his for so very long, that it feels inextricably him. Or her. He’s not been _her_ of any form in a while, and the last time he’d been a very Prim and Proper her who had also been around a very reassuring gardener. And she’d deliberately given off Fuck With Me and Die vibes because she had no interest in the harassment she’d received in more… Hell-approved femme fatale roles. 

It makes Crowley sad to know that once it had been much easier to flip and change, and how now things are… well. It’s Safer. Not that he (or she) becomes less capable of defending themself, but because… because it’s less likely to be an issue if he’s not dressed androgynously, or feminine.

But whatever it - he - she - _Crowley_ is, this body is definitely part of it. And this body likes warm hands and soft bellies and thighs. And it likes to hold a hand in one of its own, and trace the lines and sinews of Aziraphale’s. And it likes to scrunch at curls and it likes to press a thigh against a thigh and it likes to run fingertips over the sinuous curve of a smile and receive tiny kisses to the pads in return. 

When Aziraphale is peppering those kisses again, all warm eyes and overflowing affection, Crowley feels his chest tighten and he thinks maybe the movies aren’t so bad, after all. Maybe the humans go on to do things, maybe they don’t. But it’s nice to feel - even a little - like someone cares for him as much as he is sure he cares for them. 

“Y-you know,” he croaks, as a finger rubs over the pulse in his wrist, “...it… it might be nice if you… uh. If you wanted to. Maybe. Not just my hands…”

“Your wrist?” Aziraphale asks, turning his hand over and pushing his lips there, a little wickedness in his eyes.

It’s a wickedness that’s really not bad at all, though, and Crowley snorts in amusement. “I meant a bit higher, angel.”

“Up your arm?” He doesn’t move at once, giving him the chance to move away before kissing over the sleeve of his jacket. 

“Oh, you teasing bastard!” He’s fighting a grin now, and his eyes are dancing with how fucking sweet the angel is. 

“Your neck?”

That - that feels actually too intimate, and Crowley winces, pulling turtle-like back into himself just a smidgeon. Aziraphale notices, and kisses his clothed shoulder instead. 

“Would you tell me?” the angel asks, then.

“Maybe I should show you,” Crowley retorts, and leans in to kiss his lips. 

It’s odd. It is odd. He’s been kissed (_been_ kissed, not actually, actively, happily kissed) before. But that was all slobbery and meaty and gross and sometimes painful. He doesn’t remember those kisses right now, not with how tenderly a hand cups his jaw. It isn’t restraint, more… steadying, and the thumb that whorls against his skin makes him heat up unbearably. He pushes lips against lips, and although maybe they could do other things, all he wants to do is suck and tease and play with the full, lower lip he can suck past his own. He feels the faintest tease of tongue on his own upper lip, but it doesn’t push for more. 

When do you stop? Pull back? How do you know what the other person wants? What are the rules? He has no idea, but when they do part… he looks up at brimming eyes and for a moment he wonders if _he’s_ crossed a line.

“My dear… that was… my. Breathtaking.” Aziraphale actually chuckles at his own joke, and his thumb kneads into Crowley’s earlobe. “But I want you to know… if you want to never do that again, or never go beyond that… I will love you all the same.”

Love.

Huh. Dumb angel word, but Crowley feels like he’s been punched right through the mouth, down past his gullet, into his heart, and out through his lower spine. 

“Uh… I…”

“You do not need to do this ‘for’ me, Crowley. I adore our time together. If you never even wanted to hold my hand, I would still feel the same.”

“R-right.” Why did he have to do things like this? Like - like talk? 

“I just wanted you to know. Needed you to know. I only want things if you do, too.”

Crowley had never assumed Aziraphale would ever push him, though maybe… maybe on some level he’d thought he’d need to do some amount to be… just to…

He pulls back, stung. “I wasn’t whoring myself, you know.”

“I… Crowley, I’m sorry.”

“No. I - right. It’s--”

“I need to know you want things, too. Or I don’t want them,” Aziraphale pushes back. “Not because you think it will make me happy, even if it’s okay for you. I - I believe in _love_, Crowley. And that means I want what is best for _you_. And - I believe - you want what is best for **me**.”

“So you should fuck me?” he snaps. “Because I want you happy?”

“No. I should ‘fuck you’, only if you want it, too.” He fails to get angry, which he should, because Crowley is being an ass.

“Well how am I supposed to know if I want it for me, or I want it because I think you want it?”

That flummoxes him for a moment, as the angel works through the ramifications. “I suppose I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Yeah. Well.”

“It… I’m sorry. I did not mean to spoil your mood. I enjoyed it very much, but I… I needed to know for sure that you did, too.”

Respect is awful. Talking is awful. Crowley hurls his head down into the angel’s lap, and pouts up at him pointedly, until hands start to comb his hair. 

The gentle touches are soothing, and irritating, and he closes his eyes as tightly as he can. He won’t apologise for the outburst, even though he thinks he should.

Long moments of distant music, and he finally relents.

“I don’t… know how to tell what I want,” he admits. “Sometimes things feel good one day, and not the next. Some days I think I want a thing, but then I don’t. I don’t… know for sure what… I mean. How do I know if I want it for me, or for you? And what’s so wrong with wanting it for you, anyway? I mean, you wouldn’t _hurt_ me.”

“I… don’t know,” Aziraphale replies. “I just… would not want to think you were causing yourself discomfort because you thought… you needed to.”

“You’re the picture of bloody civility, angel.”

“Yes, but - but I care about you! And if what I enjoyed caused you any pain…”

“You’d stop. I know you’d stop.”

“If you let me know, I would!”

“Yes.”

“But what if you--”

“I’d let you know,” Crowley insists. “I… care about you, too. And we’ve already demonstrated if I don’t talk about this, or if we… are… fighting… that I’m miserable. So I’ll… talk.”

He thinks. No. He’s sure. Yes. He doesn’t want to be alone. And he doesn’t want to lie. And he does definitely like the kisses when they’re from the angel, and the warm hands, and the slight rumble in the belly he is lying on. Maybe it will be difficult to say it, but he’s sure he will, somehow. 

(If he doesn’t just smack him in the face and hiss ‘No’ at him.)

“Alright. I - I apologise for… becoming upset.” Aziraphale touches his cheek, carefully, caringly. “You are very important to me. And I want to know I’m doing this right.”

“That’s… why I know you will,” Crowley says, muffling his face into soft tummy. He flops onto his belly, utterly sure he’s safe. “No one else gave a shit if I even said ‘yes’. You care _why_ I might.”

The hands on his shoulders soothe out the sadness, and Crowley lets himself be lulled out of the tension. It fades, but the ache in his chest doesn’t.

***

Their next few attempts at kisses go better. Pecks on the cheeks and lips. A brief nuzzle to the neck, one that has Crowley’s knees buckling in surprised delight. Breath and lips and nose and he’s a purring kitten, constantly seeking more. 

One day, he just… knows. He knows, and he is arms around neck and legs thrown over lap and his angel is just so… beautiful and gentle and also enough of a twat and…

“I’m sure, angel.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. It’s not just because I think you want it. I… want it, too. With you. I want what you want.”

“Oh, darling!” He’s squeezed around the middle. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. To think you want to share this with me, to let me show you what it should truly be like.”

Crowley isn’t even sure Aziraphale has the bits needed. Or what bits he wants. Or… at least humans have only what they’re born with (or choose to apply). Right? Unless they… but then he sees the pained amusement on Aziraphale’s face.

“Huh?”

“I think we’re having the same quandary,” Aziraphale admits. “You said you have had… ah. Both? And I do not know what you… would like.”

Oops. 

“I’m… currently male. But I can change. If you want me to.”

“Not on my account. Unless you want to.”

Oh for the-- “Why don’t we go with what we most currently… look like… and if we decide we want to do more things, later, we go through it until we know what’s most fun?”

Aziraphale’s beam lights up all of London. 

“...what?”

“You’re already planning repeat performances.”

“I told you I bloody want this. Unless one of us doesn’t want to do it again, you’re damn right I want to keep trying.”

“Of course,” the angel smiles. “So… you don’t object to… this?”

Crowley’s eyes go wide as suddenly the Effort is apparent in the very, very interested thing under his rump. He squirms experimentally to feel for the erection Aziraphale has allowed to exist, and his eyes unfocus at the way it makes a shiver go up his spine. The fact the angel is already aroused, already interested… and the way his own body sort of just… yep. There’s a mirroring tent in his own jeans.

“Just… that there’s too much between it and me,” he hoarses in reply, and tries to hump his butt over it. 

“And you’ll tell me if--”

“Yes! I will tell you if I need you to stop, but angel, please - don’t make me think of not wanting, when for the first bloody time I do!”

Maybe it’s unfair of him to snap, but the nose at his neck is causing all sorts of sensations all the way through him. Sensations he now allows to travel lower, or maybe they’re just finally strong enough to break below the belt. Who knows, who cares, what matters is the scent of his angel and the hands now rubbing over his hip and thigh have him grabbing golden hair and biting at Aziraphale’s throat. 

Aziraphale, it seems, rather enjoys the teeth. His breath hitches, and his hands rub over his ass and waist and pull at clothing, looking for bare skin below. Crowley grabs one hand and shoves it at his belt, making it very clear he’s okay with that. Please. 

When the hand starts unfastening the snake from the clasp, he goes back to gnawing at the edge of his jaw, and pulling at his bowtie to unfurl the snarled up layers and find skin of his own to worship. He smells of salt, sweat, cologne, wine, books, cake… and Crowley. He smells like his, like he expects he himself smells of the angel. Maybe he shouldn’t find that so arousing, but he does. It’s comforting to know they are mingled, are bound up in one another, before they take this to the physical reality. It’s… hah. Nice.

After the belt, Aziraphale focuses on his belly and waist, only occasionally glancing his fingers lower. It’s a tease, but a welcome one, and it means he’s not rushing to the ‘prize’, which Crowley appreciates greatly. 

A hand on his shoulder, and he pushes Aziraphale back on the couch. The angel’s hands drop, not out of fear, but out of respect. Until Crowley wobbles and he’s holding on to support him, and they both laugh at the instinctive gestures. His arms around Aziraphale’s neck, both slightly dishevelled but nowhere near undressed.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asks.

“Aren’t I supposed to ask that?”

“Aren’t we both?”

Another smile, and a hand on his neck that feels like the surest of anchors. “Yes. Yes, we are. I am happy you want this, too.”

“Wouldn’t want it with anyone but you.”

“I feel the same. I always have.”

Does that mean… “Angel?”

“Are you asking me if I have?”

“...seems par for the course.”

“I haven’t. But I have wanted to. But only with you.”

“...it doesn’t bother you that-- I mean, I didn’t enjoy it, but I’m--”

He’s pulled down for a kiss on the forehead. “Your past has never mattered to me, only your future. And I do not mean I don’t care what happened, only--”

“I get it,” he interrupts. “Can’t change it.”

“_Yes_.” He sounds relieved. “But I can help your future to be better. If you permit it.”

“Better get on with it.” Crowley isn’t hurrying him, but he is feeling rather exposed by this emotional exchange, and he doesn’t want to end up crying about it when he could be doing other things. Other… more appealing things. 

Hands move, peeling, plucking, touching. Soft gasps and sighs and murmurs of yes, that feels nice, harder, there… layer by layer until they get stuck in an awkward one-knee wobble attempt to remove the lower parts that Crowley gets sick of and snaps the end away.

Leaving him naked, astride an angel’s lap. His wiry, whipcord body braced above the gentle clouds of deceptive strength beneath. There’s a little tuft of fluff on said belly, and Crowley nips at his lip as he looks down to see…

If they’re doing this, he can’t be shy about words. Dicks. Cocks. Penises. Love-shafts. Members. Rapiers. Whatever the fuck. Testicles and scrotums and sacs and pubic hair and all the weird little creases and folds. Bodies. Just bodies. Just physical extensions of internal selves. Contrasting and matching and slightly amusing in the way they wobble. Attractive and also hilarious in equal measure. Useful for humans, for multiple reasons, but for them… just sources of sensation. Good, and bad. 

“Did I do a bad job?” Aziraphale asks.

“Mmmm. No. It’s yours, it’s perfect,” Crowley insists, running his fingers over the tip and watching the shudder. Empathy makes him feel the same, and then there’s an actual hand touching him and he yelps at how strongly he feels it.

“Oh, should I--?”

“Fuck me, do that again!” Crowley whines.

Aziraphale’s worry melts, and then they’re both stroking, touching, pinching, pulling. It’s odd, and exhilarating, and intense, and addictive. He wants more, and he wants slower so he can keep going, and he wants **more** and this is so, so not what he thought it would be like to do it properly. It’s _so_ much more emotionally resonant, or maybe it’s because it’s an angel?

(Or just because it’s _his_ angel?)

Crowley’s belly sucks in as he tries to think through the mess of rich sensation, and he shoves his face into a collarbone and whimpers. He wants. He wants. He wants everything, but the slight pressure of where his ass meets thighs is…

“W-would… would you… please fuck me?” he asks, shy and nearly dying from the request.

“I… yes. Crowley… yes. I--”

The demon is relieved he doesn’t need to ask or direct more, because there’s a single finger pushing down between his buttocks, and he tilts his waist to invite more. More being a rub around his hole, and whispered questions that he nods yes to. Pushing. Then slowing when he tenses. Then pushing some more. Then letting him accommodate the new stretch. 

It’s. Weird. But good. And the voice by his ear makes him certain he could say ‘no’ at any time. He could. And he wouldn’t be yelled at. He wouldn’t be ignored. He wouldn’t be told to shut up and take it. It wouldn’t go harder. It wouldn’t make him hurt. He whimpers at the safety, the affection, and he grabs at shoulders.

“Fuck me,” he begs. “Please, angel. Please! I…”

Hands on his hips pull him down, and he’s not sure how they line up, but it must be a miracle. The stretch is delicious, but more is the knowledge that his angel is inside of him, physically. Is pressed into his body. Is locked, giving and receiving and it being what they both want. He forces himself down, and his body shows him stars he’s never even imagined before, stars that fill every sense and every atom and every ounce of his self.

Sure. It’s just fucking. Just… bodies doing what bodies do. But it isn’t, when he opens his eyes and sees the infinite compassion and affection on Aziraphale’s loving face. Concern and adulation and he - he really cares, doesn’t he? He does. What he wants matters, and the surge of a choke up the angel’s throat and past his lips in a vague sob of emotion is…

He loves him. Aziraphale loves him. Crowley didn’t need to do this, but he did. Not for the angel, but for himself. He - this - it’s… it’s love. And it’s beautiful. And it doesn’t even really matter if it’s bits or no bits. It’s. He’s. 

“Yes,” the angel whispers, gliding hands down his spine. “I always have. I’m… sorry I did not show you sooner.”

But he did. Choked up by Heaven as he was. He did. That look is the same. That emotion is the same, and Crowley stops saying ‘no’ to the voice that told him it wasn’t. 

He’s leaking over his face as they move together, finding their own pace, finding the ways their bodies and needs align. It’s raw, and it’s… embarrassing… and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, because that stroke inside feels like it pushes the chairs back into place deep within. Feels like it opens the curtains and massages his heart (or is it his prostate?). Feels like a flare of love and caring, and he rides the slow waves until he’s chasing over the edge of a storm-front.

Crowley knows it’s good for the angel, too, without asking. They guide and urge and ask and take and give. Kisses and words and then a hand is on his cock, tugging his arousal response until he can’t remember what it’s like not to feel bliss. Until he’s howling out his angel’s name, or something like it, as the climax is wrung from his sobbing body. He doesn’t know if the angel finds his release immediately, or if he’s dancing on that razor edge of bliss for hours first, but the gush and rush is a second epiphany and has him boneless and tear-streaked and collapsed into strong, plump arms. 

He tries to catch his breath, sweaty and sniffly, and then there’s a hand brushing against his. He turns his palm at once, and laces their fingers as tight as he can.

“That’s what it should be,” Aziraphale murmurs, against his ear.

“Shut up and love me,” Crowley replies, as warmly as he can.

But Aziraphale knows what he really means.

And Crowley knows he knows.

**Author's Note:**

> PS please (please) feel free to give me prompts at [my Tumblr](http://www.dcdavechicken.tumblr.com) as I am a silly noodle who needs them.


End file.
